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Self-loathing
May. 19th, 2004 04:16 pmThe need for blank VHS tapes engulfs me. I am repulsed by my desires and driven to despair by my addiction to cheap, black, athletic socks. I deeply regret this willful error and shall no doubt suffer karmically for this sin. What sin you may ask? I confess in shame, "I'm going to Wal-mart tonight."
And it's not just for socks and blank video tapes, folks. It gets even worse. I'm looking for a substitute for attentive gardening, also known as "Super Thrive."
I have this tendency to bring plants to the brink of death with neglect, and then, with much anxiety, lamentation and guilt I do everything within my power to revive them.
Every time I plant a garden I tell myself, "This garden is a metaphor for the state of your soul. Nothing will grow in this poisoned, cursed spot which is fit only for noxious weeds, horrifyingly freaky bugs, and grotesque decay."
"God will not let my garden grow," I reason with myself, "in order to show me just how wretched and depraved I've become." With much sorrow and grief I till my garden and plant my seeds. Sweet, life-giving tears of repentance do not come--only fruitless self-loathing.
In spite of this futile fatalism, I water the garden every so often, just to see, if by chance, God will forgive me and cause something to grow. Maybe, just maybe, Love will conquer all, even me, fallen and wretched American that I am.
If something grows, it will mean God forgives me and has shown me a sign of rich mercy.
Something grew last year and I watched the fruit fall and rot on the ground.
And it's not just for socks and blank video tapes, folks. It gets even worse. I'm looking for a substitute for attentive gardening, also known as "Super Thrive."
I have this tendency to bring plants to the brink of death with neglect, and then, with much anxiety, lamentation and guilt I do everything within my power to revive them.
Every time I plant a garden I tell myself, "This garden is a metaphor for the state of your soul. Nothing will grow in this poisoned, cursed spot which is fit only for noxious weeds, horrifyingly freaky bugs, and grotesque decay."
"God will not let my garden grow," I reason with myself, "in order to show me just how wretched and depraved I've become." With much sorrow and grief I till my garden and plant my seeds. Sweet, life-giving tears of repentance do not come--only fruitless self-loathing.
In spite of this futile fatalism, I water the garden every so often, just to see, if by chance, God will forgive me and cause something to grow. Maybe, just maybe, Love will conquer all, even me, fallen and wretched American that I am.
If something grows, it will mean God forgives me and has shown me a sign of rich mercy.
Something grew last year and I watched the fruit fall and rot on the ground.
